Texas fury (69 page)

"Come'ere, you stringy old bobcat," Coots bellowed. "Whatcha do to yourself? You look the way you did when we got married. I been telling you all these years you don't need that shit you plaster all over your face. I'll make a deal with you. You put some meat on your bones and we'll be Mr. and Mrs. Coots Buckalew again. What d'ya say?"

"See this?" Tess said, pointing to the cake. "This half is yours and this half is mine. You got any ice cream?"

"Four different kinds," Coots said proudly.

"To our family," Tess said, holding her coffee cup aloft. She watched as Coots dripped his all over the table. He slurped at the coffee and then dug into the cake and ice cream. Tess smiled indulgently. You couldn't make a silk purse out of a sow's ear, but who wanted a silk purse anyway?

As the frigid January air gave way to even colder air, messages from the family continued to arrive at the Assante penthouse apartment. Cary carried them into Amelia's room to read aloud, or repeated phone messages verbatim. Amelia would chuckle or smile warmly, happy that her family was

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staying in touch. She forced herself to concentrate on Cary's words, delivered in his warm, loving voice. She avoided his sad, compassionate eyes whenever possible.

The Colemans and their friends were scattered all over the world. Postcards from Tahiti and the Fiji Islands told Amelia that Billie and Thad were having a wonderful time. Cards mailed from Hawaii said Rand and his family were well, and planning a trip to London soon, so Chesney could wind up her affairs. Cole's cards and telephone messages confirmed that he was a frequent commuter between Japan and Texas. Riley called nearly every day, "just to touch base," he'd say. Adam and Jeff's messages from New York were light and breezy; Adam was counting the days until Sawyer came home to him—for keeps.

In early February a short note arrived in the Assante mailbox, addressed to Amelia and Cary. It was mailed from Burlington, Vermont; Julie had fled New York and gone back home to live. The sap was flowing freely and she was freezing her tush off. She was happy.

Valentines arrived, some with beautiful, meaningful verses, others with witty, even silly messages that made Amelia smile. Julie Kingsley's valentine arrived exactly on Valentine's Day. It bore her signature and a small penned note that read:

Dear Amelia and Cary:

I decided to make my valentines this year. All the tiny bits of fabric and lace are my own things that I've saved over the years. I wanted to share my heart with all of you at this wonderful time of the year. My design leaves a lot to be desired; the glue was frozen and my fingers are numb. My heart is full of love for both of you.

Affectionately,

Julie

Amelia smiled when Cary read it to her. He propped the funny-looking valentine on the dresser, directly in Amelia's line of vision, and smiled, too, because there was nothing else he could do. His nerves jumping, he excused himself to go to the bathroom. He sat down on the edge of the tub with a thump. His hands were trembling, and they felt hot and dry. He'd touched pieces of Julie's past. Julie with the laughing eyes and warm, crinkly smile. Julie. She'd been his for a brief moment in time. He reached for a washcloth to mop at his perspiring forehead.

Valentine's Day was for lovers. In past years he'd always

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bought the biggest, the reddest, the sappiest valentines he could find for Amelia, along with the biggest box of See's candies and dozens of red roses. He'd told her every Valentine's Day for years that she was his heart's desire. And she was. By God, she was. She still was. Amelia always gave him a comical card that made them both laugh. They'd always made wild, raging love on those days.

Memories. Just as Julie was a memory. He wondered if Amelia had kept the cards and letters he'd written her over the years. He'd saved all of hers, romantic that he was. He'd read something once, probably in one of Amelia's magazines, that it wasn't wise to dwell on memories, that life was for the living. He hadn't paid a whole lot of attention to that article. It comforted him to remember Julie and their time together in Hawaii, but guilt and shame allowed those memories to surface only in the lost hours of the night, when Amelia slept. There had been days, these past months, when his guilt and shame rode him like a wild stallion.

He'd been in here too long. Amelia would start to wonder. He folded the washcloth neatly and placed it on the rack. His hand was on the knob to open the door when he remembered to flush the toilet. Guilt.

When the first gusty winds of March ripped across Texas, Amelia Assante suffered her third heart attack. Her voice was frail and thin when she begged Cary and the doctors to allow her to stay home and die in her own bed. They'd agreed reluctantly; Cary hired round-the-clock nurses. He stayed in the room, leaving only to shower and eat.

Amelia slipped into semiconsciousness on the third day of March. The day before, when she'd been feeling a bit better, she'd made her husband promise not to call anyone until she was at rest. He hadn't wanted to give his promise, but in the end he did, because it was what Amelia wanted. He knew Amelia feared her family wouldn't be able to make it in time, anyway, scattered as they were all over the world. She said she wanted to see only his face when she made her grand exit, but he knew she was afraid that only one or two of the family would arrive in time. If she couldn't have all of them, she wanted only him.

He was going to break that promise now. The Colemans would never forgive him. They all needed this last chance to show their love and pay their final tribute.

Once again, Ma Bell worked her special magic for the

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Colemans. Or was it a Higher Being? Cary wondered. Borneo, Hawaii, England, Minnesota, Japan, New York, Vermont. He reached everyone. Oddly, the most difficult one to track down was Riley, right around the corner.

Cary prayed—for Amelia's forgiveness and for her family to arrive in time.

The air lanes were filled with chartered planes on the sixth day of March. One after another, they set down at Austin's airport. The intercontinental jet from Japan was the last to arrive. Sumi and Sawyer fell into Cole's arms; he hugged them hard, tears in his eyes, and led them to the waiting Bronco. At Sunbridge, the rest of the family climbed into the car.

The ride to Miranda was made in silence. Cole broke it once when he apologized for the long wait for those who had arrived early. "I thought it would be better if we all got there at the same time." The family nodded wearily. Little Jessie whimpered once, but her mother soothed her by stroking her hair and whispering softly in her ear.

Billie gasped when she saw Cary. He tried valiantly to smile a welcome. How gaunt and hollow-eyed he looked; he'd lost at least twenty pounds.

"How is she?" Billie managed.

"She's been asking for you, Billie. I have this feeling she's been waiting for you. You know she didn't want me to call anyone; she made me promise. You were to be notified. .. after.. . You ... you understand. Then she started slipping in and out of consciousness and calling for you. I broke my promise. I called all of you."

"Is it all right if I go in now?" Billie asked. Cary nodded.

Billie's eyes flew to the nurse. She rushed to the bed. Surely this tiny person, this thin, skeletal woman, wasn't Amelia. Her heart ripped open with grief. "Amelia," she said softly. "It's Billie."

"I've been waiting," Amelia said in a voice Billie barely recognized.

"I got here as quick as I could. Oh, Amelia, I want to do something. I have to do something for you." Billie sobbed, forgetting the promise she'd made not to cry.

Amelia's hand stretched toward the nurse. "Where is it?"

"Right here, Mrs. Assante. Do you want me to—"

"Give it to me."

Billie could barely make out what the nurse was doing through her tears. Amelia's grasp on the small white envelope

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was fierce. Billie reached for the envelope, and only then did Amelia's fingers relax. Billie pocketed the envelope, knowing that was what Amelia wanted.

"The family is here, Amelia. They . . . they want to . . . they need ... Please let them come in."

"Don't cry, Billie, or you'll have me doing it. I can't go with tears streaming down my cheeks. Say good-bye now, Billie."

"Amelia.. . Amelia, I can't. . . please," Billie cried, sinking to her knees at the side of the bed. Thad was at her side in a second.

"Take her out of here, Thad, and don't let her back in this room. Start the parade, will you?"

"Yes, ma'am," Thad said, forcing a grin to his lips. He knew what Amelia's flip words had cost her. He could hear her ragged breathing as he half carried and half dragged Billie from the room.

They walked in, one by one, to pay their final respects. Cary was the last.

The nurse nodded, her fingers on Amelia's pulse. Cary gathered his wife in his arms, a sob catching in his throat. Her breathing was so shallow he could barely hear her. He should be saying something, something Amelia could carry with her to eternity, something meaningful. Words that summed up their wonderful life together. All he could do was hold her close.

"Wait for me, Amelia," he whispered. He thought he could feel her head move.

She was so still, he knew she'd gone from him. He lowered her still body against the mound of pillows. Bending low, he kissed her eyes, her mouth, her hands.

"Wait for me, Amelia," he whispered a second time.

Cary's voice was hushed when he told the family Amelia was at peace. The tears flowed and the sobs echoed around the room. From somewhere Cary's strength returned, his voice became firm and brisk. "You have to stop. This is why Amelia didn't want me to call you. She didn't want you grieving like this. I broke my last promise to her for selfish reasons for all of us. Please, don't compound my guilt. Amelia wouldn't want this."

"The arrangements?" Thad asked hesitantly.

Cary walked to the desk. He handed Thad a slip of paper. "It's all here."

When Thad left the room, Cole and Riley were at his side.

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"I had Jonquil make up all the bedrooms at Sunbridge," Riley said quietly.

"Today is my birthday," Sawyer whispered to Cole. "Don't remind anyone, okay?"

"Whatever you say. I think we should leave now. I don't think any of us can handle it when they ... when they take her out."

Rand stayed near Cary, with the promise to come to Sun-bridge when all the arrangements were finalized. Cary watched with unseeing eyes as Julie shepherded the family out of the apartment.

Amelia Coleman Assante's death was announced on the evening news and on the front page of the Miranda and Austin papers the following morning. Those wishing to pay their respects could do so between 7:00 and 10:00 p.m. Services were scheduled at the Little Church of the Flowers for March 8th. Interment services were for the immediate family only.

The church was filled to capacity. The governor, the lieutenant governor, Washington dignitaries, some friends of Thad's, some friends of Amelia's—half the state of Texas came to pay their last and final respects.

The family sat together, directing their grief inward.

Eight pallbearers carried the bronze casket to the waiting hearse.

At the top of the hill behind Sunbridge, Amelia's casket was placed over the open grave. The family gathered in a circle while the minister read the psalm Amelia had requested. Cole stood on the outer edge. Inch by inch, he walked backward, till he was standing on old Seth's grave. He dug his heels deep into the soft earth, his stance rigid. A raging tornado couldn't have toppled him. Billie looked up, their eyes meeting. Only the two of them understood.

The Colemans left the way they'd arrived, full of grief and sorrow. Their numbers depleted by one.

A month to the day after Amelia's death, Cole Tanner woke, drenched with sweat. He lay among the tangled bedclothes trying to recall if he'd had a nightmare, or what else could have awakened him. As near as he could figure, he had been sleeping peacefully. The apartment wasn't too hot, nor was it cold. Somewhere, someplace, something was wrong. He looked at the bedside clock: 3:00 a.m.

Sleep was over for him. He padded into the kitchen to make

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coffee. He sat at the glass-topped table, waiting for the coffee to perk, his thoughts jumbled. He couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong. He went through the family roll call in his head. Riley? No. Things were all right; they'd spoken yesterday. He was bunking at the oil fields, drilling night and day. Sawyer would have called; she always called. His mother? No. Rand could handle anything. Grandmam Billie? No. He'd spoken with her just the past evening. Not Sumi. He's spoken to her, too. That left only Shadaharu Hasegawa. His shoulders tightened.

Cole didn't bother with a shower. He threw on the same clothes he'd had on the night before. He grabbed his wallet and car keys and was out of the apartment in five minutes flat, the perking coffeepot forgotten.

Twenty minutes later he was sitting in his car outside Sun-bridge. He stared at the house for a long time, wishing he knew why he was sitting here at three forty-five in the morning. He didn't even have a key anymore—he'd given it back to Riley at Christmastime—but he did have the electronic garage door opener on the visor in his car. "This is bullshit, Cole Tanner," he muttered. "Go home and go to bed." Instead, he pressed the small device. The doors slid upward. He cut the engine and walked through the garage, his headlights lighting the darkness ahead of him.

First he checked the oil burner and then the water heater. Both were fine as far as he could tell. He walked through the rooms, turning on overhead lights as he went along. Riley had unplugged all the radios and televisions. He made a second pass-through, feeling more foolish than the first time.

Back in the kitchen he felt more convinced than ever he'd done the right thing by giving his half of Sunbridge to Riley.

He shivered.

Cole sat down at the butcher block table that was as old as the house and full of gouges and nicks. He wondered how many meals had been eaten off the table. Nobody in his right mind sits in a cold, empty house he hates at four in the morning, he told himself. Funny, though—he still had the feeling something was wrong, that there was something he should do.